Friday morning. You wake up and before even opening your eyes to the real world you scan your Instagram. Beyonce in the Maldives? How funny! You were literally SO close to booking your trip to the Maldives for this week too. You see a couple more things that make you sad, then Kim Kardashian’s cheekbone, and you realize it’s too early for this. Like a blind baby deer, you make your way over to the bathroom and start texting your entire phonebook right from the toilet. “Yo! Out tonight?” “Baby GIRL! what are you doing later?” “Down to get DRUNK.” You’re feeling good. And so you put on a glam glow mask and then some face highlighter. NEW DAY NEW ME, you say to yourself, as you wipe off the dried-up drool from your chin.
Running to work, you grab a blueberry white chocolate chip muffin on the way. Man, you’re feeling invigorated! Maybe you’ll even get a juice later, you think, smiling like an idiot in a nearly-empty office.
And then: “What kind of pizza do you want today?” resident office father Joe asks, and you realize: shit, pizza day. Now how am I supposed to get drunk tonight? You finish your third slice and that’s when things start going downhill. You have a meeting and learned only afterward that there was a full basil leaf obstructing your two front teeth. Then you gradually start to lose faith in humanity. James Franco? Going for 17-year-olds? Did I ever even have a chance? And good Lord, child, the man asked you for your number! Pound sign = number! Then you see George Bush’s painting rendition of Vladimir Putin and you start to cry.
Work finally ends and you make your way home. You’re suddenly taken aback by a fresh burst of energy as your neighbors begin to blast music from their car. “Started– started–” Oh yeah, uh huh, it’s the Friday body roll comin’ atchya! you scream to no one in particular as you roll your stomach. Then you give the neighbors a taste of your shimmy — your go-to move, since you do it so well. But then, out of the corner of your eye, something bad happens: you catch a glimpse of yourself in the reflection of the window and you think “that is NOT how I imagined my shimmies to look…” You even out the playing field with some knee-wobbling (no way you could fuck THAT up) and then — BOOM! — you’re down, lying supine on the bed, fast asleep.
Except you never actually could fall asleep; the music outside was too loud. Ten Drake songs later and you’re cranky. That’s when the follow-ups start coming in; everyone you texted in your hyper-manic, eager state this morning is now finally responding. They’re down to go out, and want to know what you’re thinking of doing.
So you get up out of bed, eyes haggard, steam depleted. Even though you didn’t nap, you still have the post-nap munchies and so you sign onto Seamless and make a hasty, rookie order. TV shows you had never heard of until five minutes ago are now looking prettttttty titillating. Your phone rings.
“C’mon, let’s go out…” your friend says.
“But it’s so cold out……..” you whine.
“Rachel it’s July.”
“But I’m so tiiiirreedddd….”
“But this morning you said that you wa–”
“SAID SHMAID I SAY A LOT OF THINGS I DON’T MEAN.”
Now you’re angry; you don’t want to be, but you are. You do have a vague memory of your mood this morning — of yourself with goals, aspirations, and motivation — but you don’t even recognize her anymore, you think, as you finish off those two shots of melted white chocolate.
And then it’s over. Any chance you had of going out is over. So you go to sleep and promise you’ll go out tomorrow.